


Eternal Consent

by Medusa5000



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medusa5000/pseuds/Medusa5000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fanfic is romantic and indulgent--two things I do not expect of the canon. In light of the new season five trailer, however, I feel the need to share. It should go without saying that the characters and the story belong to George R.R. Martin. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternal Consent

With Sansa’s consent, Petyr enhanced Harry Hardyng’s nuptial wine with a sleeping tincture, intent to bed her himself on the night of her wedding. The decision was made weeks before the ceremony for the purpose of quickly attempting an heir that would eventually inherit the Vale, Harrenhal, and Winterfell once Petyr’s plan had come to full fruition.

 

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After the feast, with the dozing young lord slumped into a chair outside the noble bedchamber, Petyr moved slowly toward the resurrected Stark. He inched closer to her as if to steady a rare animal, once again surveying her beauty, which had transformed into something more impressive than he noted before. With an outstretched hand, he reached to take Sansa’s for a kiss just beside her new ring of gold. Sansa followed his every move. His lips lingered upon her hand for an extended press, as if to allow each of them a pause. He rose and moved closer to touch her delicate cheek then shifted to place both hands on her face, never moving his eyes from hers, a tension having filled the room. He gently kissed her brow as she closed her eyes. Sansa, rigid and silent, then raised her head to meet his gaze. The look in the pools of blue was distant, yet resolved; the look within his gray-green, powerful and yet tender. He leaned in to kiss her lips. The first was but a brush of the tips, full of doubt and apprehension; an invitation; a gentle reminder of all that had passed between them. He retreated ever so slightly and their eyes met again as he ran a thumb over her bottom lip.

Time stood still. A swift, overwhelming shift occurred beneath their feet that moved into their spines, and through their nerves changing bland necessity into primal need in a matter of seconds. His earlier negotiations to encourage the evening were offered and accepted with a perfunctory tone, but after their first gestures of affection on this important night, it was suddenly clear to each of them that more had transpired than anything they could have possibly pretended to control. The years of partnership—however cynical and necessary to advance in the game—also held deep moments of intimacy that came rushing toward them like waves of the sea, taking over their hearts as a shore. Their eyes glistened with the beginning of tears.

Petyr’s next kiss deepened into Sansa’s mouth. His tongue pressed towards hers. Sansa responded by moving into his body, grabbing the front of his doublet with both hands. In one hurried move of his fingers lacing within her auburn hair, the levy that held their emotions gave way. Their tears flowed freely and were blended with kisses meant to fight back the pain of all that had brought them together and to remember all that they were to each other: partners, adversaries, confidants, kindred spirits, and now lovers. For this, the first night, was not the first of a strategic marriage, it was the first for a great love that had been waiting all along, like a shadow over every word. As the kisses grew more furious, the hands more territorial, and the tears more willing, the knowingness of what they were to each other swelled like an army of angels against the dark. They were, very suddenly, of each other and for each other, in a way so complete they would be forever changed.

Petyr moved Sansa toward the bed, never breaking their frenzy. His lips traced her neck, her ears, her collarbone, and the tops of her breasts, still clothed in wedding refinery. She fell back into the luxuriant bed as if meeting a cloud, but neither of them noticed. Petyr moved next to her side, his eyes burning with desire as he stopped to look at her, searching for a tether back to whom he was and what he had known her to be just minutes ago. It was a futile gesture. Sansa’s eyes softened in a way that suggested all of her pain and resentment were transformed from a hardened purpose into a profound realization. She tenderly surveyed the side of his face with her fingertips. Neither of them could speak. Words were not for this moment.

They tore each other’s clothes off with desperate haste: the wedding gown ripped from its delicate fasteners, the silver mockingbird thrown from his collar, her shift severed from her writhing body, their skin heated with wanting. Naked, they made their way to the center of the bed, pulling at hair, moaning, kissing, and growing hard and wet with hunger. As he moved up onto his knees to guide her toward the pillows, Sansa stopped suddenly to look at the scar her uncle carved into Petyr’s chest those many years ago. Seeing it for the first time made her tears come again. She rose upon her right elbow and tenderly traced the mark with her left fingers as if to apologize for all of the suffering that moment has caused in his life and for all it had driven him to do. In her eyes was a promise that Petyr understood—a promise that she would not hurt him. It was a promise that she would love him as he had always longed to be loved.

The cruelty of the world that made such scornful beasts of the innocent brought them together in solidarity; as their silken fortresses fell to the floor, it merged them at the roots in devotion. They were now perfectly aligned. The common effort to master the game became their togetherness, their union. As they lay next to one another touching with hands and lips and skin, basking in the freedom of sloughing off the calculated layers of ambition, both knew without a word that they would rather die in the wedding bed together than move forward one day without each other. The game would be played and won or it would be lost; either way, it would include them as one.

Petyr slowed the tempo of their movements as he gingerly placed his body upon Sansa, holding her face with one hand as he steadied his torso with the other, tenderly caressing her with his fingertips and growing ever more lost in a sea of blue.

At last he spoke, “This may hurt, my dearest love, but I swear to all the Gods that I will never hurt you again.”

He slowly entered her for the first time. Her body flinched and tightened, but no sound of pain came from her lips, as she learned to conceal her pain long ago. Once the first wounds of losing her maidenhead coursed through her body, the discomfort subsided and she opened her eyes to Petyr’s. The tears they both shed evaporated into gasps of pleasure. They said each other’s names over and over again at their necks, as if to compensate for all of the times they could not say them before, yet wished they had. Their names spoken to each other in passion meant redemption and that redemption felt like being washed with the sweetest water on earth.

As Petyr’s movements quickened, Sansa wrapped her arms and legs around him, pulling him into her, her knuckles whitening, her moans drawing steadily from a place deep within. The feel of her around him caused Petyr to fully lose himself in the present—a rare, splendid sensation for him—for the armor against the risks of the world was not necessary during this brief, yet everlasting overture. To hear the sounds of her ultimate pleasure, Petyr caressed his thumb at the top of her pulsing folds and began to send Sansa into the throes of her first climax. She breathed his name so feverishly at her release, that he could not hold on any longer and joined her in bliss, grabbing her tightly with both arms as he filled her with his seed, sighing deeply into her ear, “Oh, Sansa. My sweet, beautiful Sansa.”

The songs of the mockingbird and the direwolf were joined in the finest seconds of joy either of them had ever known. The afterglow was mighty, yet instantly fraught with complications in their troubled minds, for they were so accustomed to living in dangerous times. The complications, however, were not to be the lasting notes. Their hearts were full of hope as they held each other tightly; hope that caused them to surrender, to love. Petyr caressed her hair while Sansa nestled into his chest. Entwined like vines sprouting from the same earth never to be unwound, they embraced on a night of great plans—a wedding night—as if the world outside was no longer so brutal. Both laid in silence until the shift of a man slumped in a chair could be heard, forcing them to stubbornly surrender to the threats of the day, like they would every other day, until death should they part.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
